


Crowley vs. Ficus

by theonsfavouritetoy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crepes, Fandom for Australia, Gift Fic, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Plants, Post apoca-wasn't, a demon trying to please his angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: Crowley tries to make dinner for his angel, much to the amusement of one particular, very cheeky plant.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: Fandom For Australia





	Crowley vs. Ficus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [half_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/gifts).



> And now for something completely different... (yeah I know I use that phrase a lot. The Pythons rule!) 
> 
> Here's my first (and probably sole) trip into Good Omens fanfiction. It's a gift for my dear friend @half_life, who was an absolute darling and won it at an auction (Fandom for Australia). 
> 
> She requested a ficlet with Crowley and his plants, and here it is! I do hope you like it!

“Fuck! Fuckety—bloody—fucking hell!!!”

Crowley slams the sixty-seventh failed attempt at a decent crêpe into the bin. His usually immaculate, beautiful kitchen — defiled! Ruined! Eggshells, milk splatters and traces of flour are littering every available surface, the specially purchased pan is almost starting to glow from the heat (Crowley’s not sure if it’s the heat from the stovetop or the hellfire burning furiously in his soul), and yet all he’s got to show for it is a shitload of miserably, runny batter pouring out of the bin he’s placed to the side. 

“Why can’t it be chili? I make a good chili, chili is my thing,” Crowley mutters to himself, when suddenly a rippling sound in his back has him spin around. “What—who—the hell?”

There’s no one there, neither demon nor angel (unfortunately both Heaven and Hell have adopted a disconcerting propensity for surprise visits) — only the _ficus benjamina_ Aziraphale insists on keeping in the kitchen for some inscrutable angelic reason. Crowley narrows his eyes at the plant, studying it sharply. 

“What’sss that,” he hisses. “Did you say something?” 

The ficus trembles slightly in response, seeming to cower under Crowley’s glare. Crowley nods, satisfied. 

“Thought so,” he mutters, turning back to his task of wasting a dozen more eggs. “I’m keeping an eye on you, newbie.” 

That’s another disconcerting novelty, one Crowley has yet to acknowledge. Since his (and Aziraphale’s, of course) frankly genius efforts to thwart the Apocalypse, there’s a strange atmosphere in Crowley’s flat. It’s not only his kitchen being actually used for cooking, or the books appearing in all probable and improbable places whenever he’s not looking for a moment — it’s almost like a change in the air. Crowley heaves a sigh, targeting the batter anew. That’s what you get for acquiring an angelic flatmate.

Of course it also has its perks, Crowley muses as he ladles another load of batter into the pan, sharply tilting it left and right to distribute it. Waking up to an angel, for example. Aziraphale, despite his propensity for all human indulgences, has never really gotten into the habit of napping or sleeping, contrary to Crowley himself who deems sleeping the best invention the Almighty has ever made. Well, that — and music, maybe. Aziraphale usually reads when Crowley sleeps, so waking up means finding him with his glasses on (endearing, really) and with his nose buried in a book. Lately, Aziraphale has taken quite a liking to Dan Brown. Interesting theories, he says. 

A sharp, burnt smell rips Crowley out of his thoughts and with a frustrated growl he snatches the pan off the stovetop. The batter is burned into the metal, nothing but a black, crumbling, smoking pile of — the air ripples again and Crowley surges around, peering over the rim of his sunglasses at the ficus. It’s shaking, but not with fear as it ought to — it’s laughing! _Laughing!!_

“You think you’re funny, eh?” Crowley crosses his arms before his chest, taking a threatening step closer. The ficus trembles harder. “Just because the angel likes you doesn’t mean—”

Unfortunately, it _does_ mean. And apparently, this new, cheeky plant has figured out that being Aziraphale’s green little pet project basically means Crowley’s hands are tied. _No insults, dear,_ the angel had said, looking as menacing as a principality in a soft human form can look. Which is, astonishingly, _very_ menacing. _No insults, no cold water splashes, no — no nasty music, Crowley!_ And, as Crowley is reasonably sure, despite Aziraphale not spelling it out, no shredding. Which this sassy plant obviously knows, or it wouldn’t dare to fucking _laugh._

“Think you’re safe, do you,” Crowley mutters. “I wouldn’t count my plant lice before they’re hatched, newbie. You’ll come into my home range sooner or later. A little accident, too little light… the wrong fertilizer… a tragic case of the rot…”

With these pregnant words Crowley turns back to the stove. One snip of his fingers miracles the pan back into its original state, another turns on the record player, and Crowley harrumphs in satisfaction when _The Invisible Man_ drowns out the quiet laughter in his back. Alright, back to the task. Crêpes. With apricot filling, maybe, or peach? Is there a difference between apricot and peach? Whatever, Crowley decides, he’ll do a cherry filling. Which means he not only has to acquire cherries from somewhere but also treat them in a way that turns them into whatever is needed to fill crêpes. Shouldn’t be too complicated, anyway. He stopped fucking _time_ for his angel, a few cherries won’t vanquish the most cunning demon hell has ever seen. 

But first he needs to produce a decent crêpe, or rather a lot of decent crêpes. He’s seen Aziraphale demolish a half dozen of them once, that time when they had met in Paris in the late Twenties. That had been a lovely time… there had been that new girl from America, rising star and all that. The bananas had been Crowley’s idea of course — stupid humans to be attracted to a skirt of jiggling bananas, but then the whole mess had started with an apple, so maybe it’s just some kind of fruit kink. 

And there, amidst the roaring audience at the Folies Bergère, Crowley had spied a familiar face, bright eyes as round as saucers and his plump mouth hanging open like the moron he is — Crowley shakes himself out of his smitten reminiscence. Anyway, blablabla, wily old serpent, hello angel, how about some crêpes when you’re done tempting those poor mortals. And once again Crowley had spent a wonderful evening watching Aziraphale indulge in his favourite pastime: eating in a way that should be demonic rather than angelic. Not that there has ever been a demon Crowley watched eating. It’s not something they do a lot. And _when_ Crowley does it, it takes about ten seconds, at the most. 

So Crowley needs to produce at least six decent crêpes. Better a few more, to be on the safe side should Aziraphale feel especially famished after a long day’s work. What’s it he’s doing today again? Crowley tries to remember while mixing another batch of batter. When this is over he’ll be able to list the exact amount of ingredients in his sleep. The bookshop is closed today (as it is most days, especially now that Aziraphale doesn’t have to fear any other retribution than Gabriel’s lame lectures) and as far as Crowley remembers the next visit to Tadfield isn’t until the coming weekend, for Pepper’s birthday party. 

(Crowley still hopes he can somehow convince Aziraphale to refrain from unpacking his old top hat.)

No, it has to be some sort of book purchasing quest the angel is off to do today. Didn’t he say something about a signed first edition of John Dee? Crowley can’t remember. He’s probably been too busy with staring at Aziraphale to actually hear what had come from his mouth. Something he has to work on. It’s frankly ridiculous… six thousand years and Crowley still can’t get enough of Aziraphale’s face. Not that his true form isn’t beautiful too, but his corporation is… special. 

Crowley ladles a perfect amount of batter into the pan, distributing it evenly. So far so, good, but now comes the really tricky part. Forked tongue poking out, Crowley concentrates on loosening the crêpe from the pan, flipping it around — damn fucking bloody HELL!!! It’s broken _again_ , probably been too thin, but then crêpes ought to be thin or they would be pancakes. The formerly quiet plant laughter in Crowley’s back starts to get louder the filthier his curses become, even louder than _Seven Seas of Rhye._ And that’s not all. Disbelief clouding his mind Crowley pauses the music with a snap of his fingers, he must be mistaken, that can’t — but it is. 

There’s more laughter coming from his indoor greenhouse. _The other plants are laughing too!!!_ For a moment Crowley doesn’t know how to react, but then his frozen state dissolves and he walks, nay, _barges_ out of the kitchen and into the greenhouse. And wouldn’t you believe it, the laughter doesn’t stop at his appearance! 

“Stop it,” Crowley yells, “stop this at once!”

No reaction other than one rubber fig practically starting to wheeze. Crowley stares, open-mouthed. Where is the fear? Where is the horror, where — he rips his glasses off, unleashing the full range of his demonic glare on the plants. That at least has them quiet down a little, too little, and Crowley snarls. 

“There’s a word for what you’re doing! Mutiny!” He stares at them each in turn, picturing Beelzebub’s face in his mind (this normally serves to make him utterly furious). It seems to work; the last of the laughter fizzles out and finally it’s quiet again. 

“I know who I have to thank for this,” Crowley mutters. “And this is one step too far!” 

He stalks back into the kitchen, grabbing the ficus together with its pot and carries it back to the other plants. 

“This is the ringleader, isn’t it?” One eucalyptus nods ever so slightly, and Crowley hisses in triumph. “Well, I’ll show you lot what happens to a plant that doesn’t know how to behave, nevermind whatever angelic protection it may be enjoying.”

He grins, the most demonic grin he’s capable of. (Coincidentally the same one that was responsible for that horribly unrealistic Exorcist movie. Crowley still hasn’t forgiven the director for the green puke.) 

“Any last words?” he asks the plant in his arms, but nothing comes and Crowley’s grin widens. “Time to say goodbye,” he drawls as he carries it out of the greenhouse and into his office, to the shredder. 

Looking back over his shoulder Crowley sets the ficus on his desk, leaning low and hissing menacingly. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll play along, newbie.” And with that he turns the shredder on. 

***

“Hello, dear, I’m back!” 

Crowley throws a last, scrutinizing gaze at the decked table, straightening a fork and checking everything’s in order before he meets his angel in the hallway. Aziraphale looks happy, his suitcase seems heavy — all signs of a successful acquisition — and Crowley takes it, waiting for the angel to take off his shoes and put on his favourite comfy slippers. When Aziraphale is done, he straightens, merrily placing a kiss on Crowley’s cheek that promptly has him melt into a puddle. He’s not yet recovered from it when Aziraphale has already advanced into the dining room, judging by the shouts of delight. 

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” Aziraphale sighs, hands folded over his heart. “Did you do all of this yourself?” 

Fleetingly, Crowley wonders if he has thought of miracling the chef of Paris’ best crêperie back to where he summoned him from, but he’s reasonably sure he has. (Yes, yes, he has given him a _nice_ new memory. Urgh.)

“Sure,” he says with a modest shrug. “Wasn’t that much trouble. Sit down, angel, eat while they’re hot.” 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says with his most beautiful smile, the one that makes Crowley’s fragile human heart beat way too fast. “Just one question before we start…” 

“Yes?” 

“Why is the ficus sitting at the table with us?” 

Crowley and Aziraphale both look at the plant, indeed sitting in a spare chair, just like a peculiar, leafy dinner guest. 

“Och,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes at it and receiving an amused ripple in return. “We kind of made a deal.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I very much love comments, or just a hello :)


End file.
